


Unspoken

by TakeTheShot



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: After Bahrain, Agents of SHIELD spoilers, BAMF Melinda May (mentioned), Bowtie, But if you don't watch AoS it shouldn't matter, Ceiling Vent Clint Barton, Clint Barton is a good boyfriend, Coping with trauma, Cuddling, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, M/M, Missions Gone Wrong, Not MCU compliant because I vanished Laura Barton again, Phil Needs a Hug, Phil gets more than a hug, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, SHIELD Husbands, Shower Sex, What Happened in Bahrain, coming home, i'm still not sorry, taking back control, you'll still get this i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-07 17:30:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14086002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TakeTheShot/pseuds/TakeTheShot
Summary: Sometimes, in this job doing good and making it back home alive is the best you can hope for. And sometimes it has to be enough. Coulson taught Clint Barton that. Now a mission has gone horribly wrong and he needs reminding. Clint can do that.Set at S.H.I.E.L.D before anything Avengers happened, focuses on the aftermath of May and Coulson's mission in Bahrain. So refers to Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. season 2, but nothing detailed and nothing Coulson doesn't know himself at that point so not exactly spoilers. And if you don't know anything about Bahrain, I swear, you won't need to, you can just enjoy the smut.





	Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> Just because I love Shield Husbands/BowTie and Agents of Shield and I recently found out what did happen in Bahrain. The show focuses a lot on what happened to Agent May in the aftermath, and yeah, she's awesome, but I thought Coulson had it rough too. Watching a friend hurt and fall apart and knowing some of it is down to your call is not easy. So, I imagined how he would deal with it all and my answer was, not well. But don't worry. I sent Clint in to help him out. Which resulted in a whole load of fluffy, angsty shower-based smut. Enjoy!

It’s the travel records that first put him on alert. The flight plan for Coulson’s mission is classified above his level but rules and lockouts have never mattered that much to Agent Clint Barton, not when they’re between him and information he needs to know. His hacking skills gainfully employed, he almost breathes a sigh of relief when he sees that Coulson’s Quinjet is listed as in the air and returning to the Triskelion. But. A line of text catches his eye; a second Quinjet, one that hadn’t been scheduled when he’d checked in earlier. Frowning, Clint pulls up the flight plan and passenger manifest, hisses through his teeth. The jet was bringing in Andrew Garner, no one else, no stops, the landing red-routed, and Clint knows there’s only one reason S.H.I.E.L.D. would be fetching Agent May’s husband here in that time-frame. Something has gone very wrong in Bahrain. He slams the laptop to the table and is pretty sure he hears the screen crack. Goddammit.

 

Clint doesn’t make a habit of hovering, but he makes sure he is on the flight deck when the Quinjet carrying Coulson’s team touches down. He’s high, and shadowed, but there. The bay door opens and out stumble twelve agents, still in their combat gear, instantly hustled away by a gaggle of white coats from medical. The next coats head into the jet and there is a long moment when Clint forgets to breathe, but when they emerge Coulson isn’t in the chair they’re pushing. Instead, he’s walking beside Agent May who, despite her very obvious injuries, seems annoyed to not be disembarking under her own steam. Even from this distance the look on her face is classic May disgruntlement and the normality of it allows Clint to relax, even smile a little. But then Coulson steers her over towards her husband and the cry she gives when she sees him is like nothing Clint has ever heard from her, it’s less his name than it is a distress call. She lurches from the chair and into Andrew’s arms, leaning heavily on him as he leads her off towards medical too. Coulson watches them go and Clint watches Coulson. 

He is very, very still and, while that might look like calm to anyone else, Clint knows better. Coulson holds himself like a man made of glass, as if the smallest movement could make him fly into a million pieces, as if the pressure released would send shards of himself exploding everywhere. Clint feels him pointedly not looking at his hiding place, even deep in the shadows the strength of Coulson’s non-stare punches him square in the chest. He waits. Eventually, a junior agent approaches, probably with a call to attend debriefing and Coulson straightens his tie and steps away, never once glancing round. Goddammit again.

The door to Coulson’s apartment is locked, but Clint has about as much interest in doors as he has in security gradings. He’s always had his own ways of getting around and while he’d admit that he’s been in better places while just wearing his vest and boxers he can’t fault Coulson’s meticulousness, the vents are spotless. The sound of running water lets him know he’s reached his destination and he drops through the duct to land noiselessly on the wet room tiles. Clint would swear in any court in the land that he’s not made one sound, but the greeting comes anyway.

“Barton.”

Coulson is facing away, letting the water pound down onto his naked back, fists resting on the wall, head resting on those fists. He does not turn and if he doesn’t sway on his feet it is only because the man has self-control strong as an iron bar and about as flexible. Clint stands lightly, hands resting at his sides. He does not move.

“Sir.” 

Coulson takes a deep breath and his voice is flat, tight.

“Barton, you don’t need to be here.”

Clint's reply is immediate and crisp. “The fuck I don’t Sir.”

Another breath, and this time Coulson twists his head, minutely.  
“Barton, what I mean is, I don’t need you to be here.”

Silence is the only reply Clint can make to that. It stretches, filled only with the needling of the shower and the soft hiss and curl of steam. He does not reach out, knowing as he does that at this point any gesture on his part would likely see him ending up in medical too, which would help precisely nobody. Instead, he stands. 

Glaciers have melted faster than Coulson turns, but he does. Turn. Eventually. 

Clint has to call on all his training not to flinch from that dead-eyed stare and carefully empty face but he manages, just, and lets his own gaze rest on Coulson, standing stock-still under the water, offering nothing but a blank wall. Thankfully, he has always been good at climbing.  
“It went bad.” Not a question.

Coulson matches him for stillness. “Yes.”

“Very bad.”

“Yes.”

“But you’re alive.”

This time Coulson exhales long and hard through his nose before he answers.  
“Barton. Yes.”

Now Clint allows himself to lean forward, not moving his feet, tilting just the tiniest bit, a challenge.  
“Prove it. Sir.”

The kiss, when it comes, is both expected and vicious. Coulson launches himself at Clint with a strangled shout and, one hand taking the back of his head in a desperate grip, crushes their mouths together. It is sloppy, frantic and utterly, utterly selfish. Coulson bites, sucks and licks his way into Clint, teeth, lips and tongue invading and claiming in a kiss that is more war than it is passion. He steals Clint’s breath, plastering their bodies together while Clint lets him take it. His arms do not move from his sides.

Eventually Coulson, panting, breaks away to drop his head and mouth wetly along the taut line of Clint’s jaw and down his throat, finally reaching the neckline of his vest and biting into the thin cotton. Coulson’s hands shake, barely controlled, as they fly up to finish the job but they make short work of the worn fabric anyway, ripping it from hem to hem and stripping it back and away over Clint’s shoulders. Clint gasps as Coulson’s teeth move to set into the flesh of his shoulder, leaving a string of hot marks that will surely purple gorgeously by morning, but that’s all the reaction he allows himself. Dropping the remains of the vest to the floor, Coulson’s hands are back on him and they are everywhere, mapping each and every plane of his chest and back, reading him like Braille. They skim down, past the waistband of his boxers to grab the cloth-covered curve of his arse and Coulson makes that choked sound again before Clint is spinning, turned and slammed into the tiled wall, forearms first, just catching himself. His boxers are snatched down and unceremoniously off next, and Coulson pins himself against the hot expanse of his back, his breathing coming hard and fast in his ear. Clint unhesitatingly widens his stance, spreading his legs, pushing his arse back and out and firmly against the throbbing cock pressing between his cheeks.

Coulson pushes home slick and easy, because Clint Barton is neither a masochist nor an idiot. He knew exactly what he was coming here for and he knows preparation is the key to any successful mission. This is no exception.

They both groan at the hot silken slide and again, louder, when Coulson bottoms out, filling Clint as much as he can be filled, bringing them as close as two bodies can possibly be. There is a long, long moment where they stand, suspended, and Clint is sure he can hear the sound of Coulson’s heart, his mercifully still alive and thudding heart, even over the wordless panting against his neck. He can certainly feel it beating throughout his body, a frantic rhythm hammering in time with his own. Then Coulson shifts, gripping Clint at the neck and hip, clutching him hard enough to add to his new collection of bruises. And begins to move. 

It is a brutal fuck. Coulson drives into him over and over in an endless ripple of undulating thrusts and even bracing with his not-inconsiderable arms Clint has to work to keep his footing against each harsh impact. But he does, standing as relaxed he can as Coulson works him over. Coulson switches between sharp, shallow jabs, popping just the head of his cock through Clint’s tight muscle, agonisingly and repeatedly, and sudden, deep, pounding thrusts that reveal the power of the man, usually wrapped so carefully, hidden within those neat suits. Sweat runs down them both, mixing with the water still cascading from above. Coulson grunts and pants and swears as he fucks into Clint; Clint moans, even yelps, quite freely now, totally unable to stop himself. It is brutal, punishing, savage even, completely life-affirming and absolutely definitely not about him. Clint offers everything and Coulson simply takes, and takes and takes all of what is freely given, using Clint however he needs. In this moment, Clint has made himself Coulson’s.

It’s this heady knowledge that drives Clint to work one arm free (it makes his balance more precarious, but shit, if his circus training can’t help him now, what the fuck was it for?), and take hold of his own rigid cock, fisting it roughly in time with Coulson’s strokes. It’s a brilliant, glorious agony, holding himself on the edge, waiting for Coulson to chase his own peak. Clint whines, biting into his own forearm in sheer desperation and suddenly he just can’t. Whether purposely or not Coulson has moved, the new angle hits Clint in exactly the right place and there is no holding back from that. He gasps, spilling over his fist, clenching desperately around Coulson’s cock, howling his name. That’s more than enough for Coulson too and he finally lets go, slamming fiercely deep into Clint one last time as his own orgasm rips through him, mouth split wide in a breathless, soundless scream, fingers gripping hard enough for red crescents to decorate Clint’s hip. He holds himself there as they both jerk and shake.

Once the aftershocks begin to fade, Clint feels the hands on his hips begin to tremble. Coulson’s grip loosens as he straightens up and carefully withdraws, then his knees give way and he’s dropping like a stone to the shower floor. Which is when the quiet sobbing starts. 

Sliding more gracefully down himself, Clint slips behind Phil, brackets him between his legs and gathers him up in his arms. He holds on while Phil cries himself dry, eventually slumping back against Clint’s chest, resting his head on his shoulder and sucking in little hiccupping breaths while the water washes his tears away in its torrent. 

Eventually, Clint reaches up and shuts off the shower then comes to his feet, scoops Phil up bridal style and, ignoring his faint protests, carries him through to the bedroom. They’re both still dripping wet but Clint figures two naked people even in a slightly damp bed will still be warm enough so he dumps his cargo onto the mattress and spoons up behind him, pulling the blankets up around them both as he does. He cuddles close, arms wrapped around Phil’s middle and listens to his breathing even out as he finally relaxes. He’s just at the edge of sleep when a hand creeps up to grasp his own.

“Clint.”

Tomorrow, Clint knows, he will hear the story. 

(They’ll sit with fresh coffee, maybe pancakes, and Phil will tell him about an extraction gone wrong. About a powered person with more power than they imagined and no inclination to listen to S.H.I.E.L.D, about civilians kidnapped, twelve agents lost and one woman determined to get them back again. They’ll get out of the Triskelion and head to a park, feel the sun shine on their faces and watch life happen all around them while Coulson tells him about gunfire and lost comms, countless bodies but twelve living agents recovered, about a little girl lost and a limitless woman pushed so far beyond her limits that she might never find her way back. And tomorrow, while they drink beer with their feet up and their shoes off and the latest episode of Dog Cops being ignored on the TV, Coulson will tell him about Bahrain, and May, and the day the cavalry came. And about how it broke his heart.)

Clint will listen to every word and will remind Phil what he himself teaches. That sometimes, in this job, intending to do good and coming home alive is the best you can hope for. And that sometimes it has to be enough.

Then, before Coulson puts on his suit and tie, Hawkeye picks up his bow and they stride back out to kick some more ass, Clint will show Phil again, this time slowly, carefully, reverently and sweetly, exactly what coming home means. 

But that’s tomorrow. Tonight,

“You’re welcome, love. I’m here.”

Nothing else needs to be said.

**Author's Note:**

> My first ever attempt at a slash fic. Let me know what you think? Thank you!


End file.
